ilor. "Here, hi! Billy Wriggs, whatcher
doing on?"

For the man had slowly raised himself upon his feet again, and was
tottering toward the mist.

"I'm a-going, matey, to fetch that there young natooralist out o' yonder
if I dies for it: that's what I'm a-going to do."

He spoke in a low muttering growl, and the man's looks and actions as he
reeled and groped his way along were those of one stupefied by some
strong narcotic.

"But yer can't do it, lad," cried Smith, rising to his knees. "Come
back."

"I'm a-going to fetch out that there young natooralist," muttered
Wriggs, as he staggered on.

"But I tell yer yer can't," shouted Smith.

"Quick, let's try again," said Panton, struggling to his feet once more,
and now with Smith also erect and grasping his hand, they two came on in
Wriggs' track, just as Drew rolled over quite insensible.

They did not advance a dozen paces, for Wriggs, who had tottered on
strong in his determination to do that which his nature forbade, gave a
sudden lurch and fell heavily, head in advance, and the others knew that
he must be within the influence of the mephitic vapour.

It was hard work to think this, for, as Smith afterwards said, it was
like using your brain through so much solid wood; but in a blind
helpless fashion they tottered on, and, bending down, each caught one of
the man's ankles, and dragged him back by their weight more than by any
mechanical action of their own, each movement being a kind of fall
forward and the natural recovery. The result was that step by step
Wriggs was dragged from where the vapour was inhaled till Drew was
reached, and they sank upon the bare burnt earth again, bewildered, and
lacking the power to think, as if the mists had gathered thickly in
their brains, and they could do nothing else but lie and wait for the
return of strength.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE HELP THAT CAME.

Hours passed, during which the little party lay utterly exhausted and
overcome, sunk in a deep sleep, which partook more of the nature of a
swoon. They were only a few yards away from the mist, and in such a
position that, had a breeze arisen to waft it toward them, the
probabilities were that they would never have awakened more.

It was Panton who first slowly opened his eyes to look round and gaze
wonderingly at his companions, then at the golden mist, whose deeper
folds were orange and warm soft red.

For it was evening, and as he turned toward the sinking